Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Grateful for Flush Toilets

So. I can't get down my snow-covered driveway. My son is sick far away, where I can't tend him. ISIS is beheading Coptic Christians; politicians are spouting stupidities in public where people can hear them. Also, on Thursday it's supposed to be -17 degrees. Fahrenheit.

Here. Where it is never supposed to be -17 degrees.

So I've decided to replace my usual rant with a list of things I am grateful for. I don't mean big things, God, family, friends, love, the glories of modern medicine and technology. I'm talking prosaic. It's the everyday we tend to take for granted. (Also. I've been reading Ian Mortimer's books.)

I am grateful for my washing machine. Have you ever read accounts of laundry day anytime before, say, 1920? Makes you shiver in your bones. I think if pioneer women could see my Kenmore washer, they would throw themselves across it and weep.

Ditto the toilet. Now I have used many an outhouse in my day, but I have never, ever, had to cope with a night jar. And I am grateful.

I'm grateful for disposable paper hygiene products. All sorts, tp, tampons, menstrual pads, but especially Kleenex, which prevents me from having to use upwards of 3000 (non-disposable, and probably requiring ironing) handkerchiefs a day.

Wicking sports fabric. Riding and yoga are so much more fun now that my sweat doesn't make my shirt weigh 40 pounds.

TIVO. I never thought I'd say it, but this, like having separate closets, has been a source of harmony in my marriage. It means I don't have to force my husband to watch Downton Abbey on Sunday nights. I don't have to force him to watch Downton Abbey ever. What's not to love?

Anti-depressants. Oooh, baby. For the misinformed, these are not "happy pills." These are "anti-suicidal thoughts" pills. (Okay, maybe they are happy pills--in that my friends and family are really happy that I'm not depressed.)

Book reviews. I love them. I love all of them. I love good reviews that orient me towards books I would not otherwise read, and I love bad reviews that keep me away from others. I love reading reviews of my own books, even when I itch to correct their mistakes (Ada isn't locked in a basement, she's up on the third floor--which might be the fourth floor here in America). Last week I had a five-letter review of TWTSML, on Goodreads: "Harsh reality and riveting sweetness." Doesn't the phrase "riveting sweetness" kind of rock your world? It did mine. Until my husband, who loves word games, started coming up with replacements for "riveting." Cloying. Sticky. Revolting. Etc.

That's enough to go on with. I'm off to watch Downton since my world is hemmed with snow.